Ferry Chrucking Mistmas.

Just a few more minutes until xmas starts here, and nothing is all that different from usual. The Rabbit is in the next room coughing, clearing her throat, hacking up snot from her throat, blowing her nose loudly and frequently. Likely at least another half-hour, maybe longer, before she’ll even begin trying to shut down her computer and start getting herself to bed, which takes another half an hour usually. Meanwhile, I’ve been trying to keep myself distracted from how horny I am, because there’s nothing I can do about it until she’s at the other end of the house; the lack of privacy here is incredibly frustrating on a nonstop basis.

I’m supposed to be ready tomorrow morning by about 10am — last-minute plans to spend the day with Again, whose holiday plans fell through. Hoping to fuck that I can get some rest before then, and hoping I can take care of a few things I’d really really like to accomplish before I get some sleep. So fucking sick of being stuck here. Sick of The Rabbit‘s complete obliviousness to all the shit surrounding her, all the shit she causes, everything. it’s so horrible here. And she’s said to me, explicitly, “I never wanted you here.” Well, fuck you too, since I never wanted to be here, but hey, you’re the one who made the goddamned offer in the first place, so…

Miserable. I’ve said it plenty before, but this place is killing me. It’s a slow death, but it’s death nonetheless. I mean, within the last couple of weeks, I had a night where, for the first time in easily 20 years… I could see swallowing an entire bottle of sleeping pills as a choice that I could make. I chose not to, that night. But it was a choice I could have made, and I recognized it as such. That ought to scare me; instead it was more of a “huh. Guess I’m not in great shape. ~shrug~

I don’t know how I’m going to possibly find a home. Ever. Things have only gotten worse since I last ranted about how shitty housing options are around here, and they’re continuing to fall apart spectacularly for anyone who isn’t wealthy. It’s hopeless. Utterly hopeless.


Past 5 in the morning; feeling worse for the weather, it seems.

“And I was gonna write a poem about how fire is the only thing that can make a person jump out of a window, […] but depression, too, is a kind of fire… and I know nothing of either.” –Taylor Mali, “Depression Too Is a Type of Fire”

Yesterday I wanted to be dead. Not to kill myself, not to die, just… to cease existing. And yes, I could recognize that having been awake for over 24 hours straight — having lost count of exactly how many — likely helped color my view of the world, but I could also recognize that it only added intensity to what is generally sitting just under everything else, just like alcohol lowers my inhibitions but doesn’t make me do anything I wouldn’t have done while sober. A few drinks might make me do whatever it is more easily, more quickly, with less hesitation; being sleep-deprived and hungry makes me hit those lows more profoundly, more easily too.

Before falling asleep yesterday evening, I posted some depressed and depressing rant like I frequently do, I sent my therapist a text message letting her know I was “wishing hard I wasn’t alive” and that I was about to sleep, and then I got a message on Facebook from Escrow. The first message just said “hey!” And shit, I was overwhelmed, barely able to cope, and I was starting to tell her thanks for checking in but that I couldn’t really process chatting right then… but as I was doing so, she mentioned that she was checking to see that I was safe because she’d heard about a huge fire in my general overall area and she was worried about me.

Oh, right. I’d seen the “safety check” thing from Facebook when I’d picked up my phone, and I had dismissed the notification because it was more shit that I couldn’t deal with when I was already struggling to deal with everything else… but the check-in from a dear friend drove home something that I have known for a long time: an immediate, obvious threat to life gets responses. The slow quotidian slide, the mundane yet no less significant forces that are weighing me down and killing me… those are much, much harder to get help in dealing with. It’s the reason why, in the past, I might have made an obvious post about being ready to kill myself. Or why I might have called a crisis hospital and said that I believed I was a danger to myself or others. Or why I might have chosen any number of, essentially, ruses to make it seem as if there were an immediate, obvious threat to my life. Because that’s what people respond to! But, of course, the responses I’d get in those situations aren’t really all that helpful. And there’s the additional aspect of being “the girl who cried wolf,” because if I ever were at a point where I had specific plans to kill myself and enough motivation to do so, then I’d want to know that I hadn’t left behind me a trail of people too burned by my prior attention-grabbing to intervene when I really needed it.

So I don’t do that kind of thing anymore. Haven’t for years. But when things are caving in under the heaviness of life with depression, and I’m feeling alone and hurting and would love to have someone I know and trust be there for me — not because I’m about to die, but because I’m struggling in other, equally difficult ways… it seems a lot like, well,

“When I expressed my desire to kill myself, I was overwhelmed with offers from people who wanted to spend time with me. Two weeks later, though, I couldn’t get any of them to pick up the phone. It made recovery really difficult because it communicated that people only really cared when I was in crisis.” –Kitty Stryker, “So Someone You Love Is Suicidal”

The title of this post comes from the lyrics of an Erasure song, “Rock Me Gently.” The official music video is a shorter cut than the album version, which basically takes away the otherworldly sadness of synthesizers amid the shrieks of Diamanda Galás which make it such a perfect match to my mood on many occasions. The chorus, however, is simple, direct, and to the point:

“I dream you’re with me
You hold me sweetly
And rock me gently to sleep
In your arms.”

I wish I knew what that felt like again. It’s been a very long time indeed.

Friday Raves & Rants

Well, I thought that setting a schedule for myself would make writing happen. I ought to know better than that, but “hope springs eternal,” as they say. It’s been… a while since my last post, although the ideas swirling around and the mental first-draft paragraphs are always with me…

I’m going to attempt a wider-than-the-week Rave/Rant post, though my focus will be on this last 7-day period.

RAVE: Last night I went to see a play. It was George Bernard Shaw’s “You Never Can Tell,” and it was delightful! I’d heard that there was a local production, and that it was in its last week, so I mentioned to The Rabbit that it was going on and (although it took her from Sunday to Thursday morning to actually get around to it) she got tickets and we went to see. It was my first time seeing a production by that particular company, and although I’d been saying that it was my first exposure to Shaw, I realized that I’m at least indirectly familiar with his work through “My Fair Lady” — I grew up on that movie, and bits of it still come to mind easily (for example, Rex Harrison’s “Damn, damn, damn, damn!” when I’m frustrated at a realization of my own faults and the accompanying realization that I have the obligation to be a better person in the future.)

RANT: Much of the week following my last post, The Rabbit was out of town. She didn’t, however, provide me with much in the way of specifics about her expected departure or return, and even less in the form of written reference. She pays me to keep an eye on her cat and her house while she’s away, but the amount she left was considerably less than what I seemed to recall her having promised before, and I ended up having to change and cancel at the last minute plans I’d made — and looked forward to — thanks to her lack of communication (which, if you’ve read much of my previous work here, you’ll know has been a consistent thorn in my side. I don’t deal well with assumption, with passive-aggressive attempts at saying what you don’t really mean in order to get me to somehow guess at what you want to communicate, with being left in the dark more often than not.) I also ended up having to clean up a huge mess of feline vomit and feces one of those nights when I’d expected her to already be back in town, when I was already exhausted, mostly ready for bed, and not at all prepared to deal with trying to keep myself from throwing up while I bent down to scoop up shit from the middle of a puddle of puke on the kitchen floor. I did at least have a sarcastic laugh in realizing that at least it was on the linoleum, rather than the shag carpet which would have perfectly matched the shade of those bodily fluids, and made the cleanup more effort than I would have been willing to invest.

RANT: She and I ended up fighting quite a bit via email — or, at least, I penned honest and vulnerable but quite angry missives to her, saying things I’ve avoided bringing up which are, which have been, consistent problems… and at least at first she bothered to touch on a couple of the points I brought up (like considerably under-paying me for housesitting and pet care) but then just completely stopped responding. She seems convinced that ignoring problems will make them go away. Meanwhile, back over here in reality, her unwillingness to even attempt to engage with me when I say “look, this thing you’re doing is causing me real and significant harm, could you please do something about it? Or if you’re not going to do something about it, could you even manage to just tell me it’s not gonna happen so I can resign myself to that fact? Can you give me anything to work with?” isn’t making those problems go away. It’s just slowly eroding my sanity and leaving me even less capable of coping with everything.

RAVE: I… think I met someone? I’m frightened to be too hopeful just yet, but she’s gorgeous, we get along beautifully, we share many interests and our conversation flows easily, her worldviews and outlook have, so far over the few evenings we’ve shared together, seemed sensible and sane — even on a few topics that are often quite divisive. And, of course, she’s absolutely sexy as fuck. I did mention that, I suppose, but… yeah. And… she understands (and has lived with) the repeated pain of having someone wonderful suddenly vanish, often without warning or explanation. That shared vulnerability means a lot to me. We haven’t yet had any discussion about “what are we/what would we like to be.” it’s early for that, but I’m hopeful despite myself.

RAVE/RANT: I went back to look through my dad’s poetry tonight. He and I haven’t… really… been on very good terms… in a long time. But back in the middle of 2014, after nearly 2 years of silence from him, he provided me with access to the section of his website he’d made private which contains a database of his poetry, stuff he’s written over the last nearly 20 years. That came after I mentioned to my mom (who I talk with on the phone fairly often) that I’d noticed it was suddenly no longer public; I occasionally find myself seeking comfort or consolation or creative spark from his writing, and I’ve told him so. (He’d tucked things away behind a password so that he could submit his work to potentially be published in places that ask for new or unpublished work.) That’s the good part. The not-so-good part is, as I was reading through one after another of his most recent work, from the past 3 or 4 months… suddenly I saw “Internal Server Error” pages for a short time, and then a page stating that the poetry section was “temporarily unavailable.” While my rational mind keeps repeating to me that the simplest explanation is that there really was some sort of error, and that it’s just a temporary server issue… my emotions and anxiety keep trying to tell me that he noticed the access, that he suspects it was me (I know that at least at one point, and likely still, he had his own custom-coded analytics and access logs that recorded basic stuff like which poems were accessed, at what times, and from which IP addresses, and I do have a few favorites which I stopped on before checking out his latest) and that he is purposely blocking me from seeing his writing. But, I also recognize that my anxious mind often comes up with elaborate scenarios in which people’s behavior is intentionally malicious and designed to show hate or anger or disgust towards me, while I work hard to amplify the sensible side saying “It’s not about you! Don’t attribute to malice what can be more easily blamed on error, accident, circumstance, or idiocy!” So… I don’t know.

RANT: I’m still often not getting out of the house at all. It can be a week or more between me getting out, and often that’s “getting out of bed.” The last week has been better with that, and it really does make a huge fucking difference in keeping the depression at bay… though obviously it doesn’t eliminate it completely. Monday I was out for my weekly therapist appointment, and it was a really emotionally intense session. I hadn’t really grasped how hard it had hit me until a while later, and I suddenly recognized how dark a place I was, how much I was stuck in the “I don’t want to exist” pit.

RAVE: Despite that, I’ve also had a few days so far this week which I’ve spent getting better acquainted with a cute little cafe I’d only been to a couple of times before, and then spending time soaking in a lovely hot tub in a lovely garden nearby. It’s self-care, and some particular forms of that which I’ve not done very much of in a long while. Small steps.

RAVE: Being able to share company with a whole lot of different cool people recently. There are folks out there who not only indulge me by listening to my puns and quips, but appreciate them and share their own back. People who like hearing me break into song at the slightest reference, and it hasn’t felt like I’m just being used as a party trick to get a few giggles, but that my contributions are genuinely desired and bring heartfelt smiles. It feels weird, but good-weird, and I’m recognizing as I write this that I hesitate to say “friends…” but I think that’s what I have around me more and more often. And of course, as soon as I say that, my brain launches into the thousands of reasons that it’s not really “friends” I have, and the countless things that I still lack. But I’m doing my best to shut that voice up, because, quite frankly, it’s full of shit, and I deserve to let myself believe the good things that I have instead of dismissing them out of hand. It’s work. Hard work. And it’s uncomfortable. But unlearning broken scripts, changing the things I do when they no longer serve me, adapting to what really does bring pleasure… is often an uncomfortable, messy process. But it’s worth it. So very, very worth it. Patience.

Sunday Raves & Rants

So. I’m going to start something here, hopefully as a push to get myself writing here more often. The format is taken from something that author Julie Anne Peters used to do back when she was blogging on MySpace (remember that thing?) and encouraged her readers/fans/etc. to follow suit in the comments; I was a frequent contributor there. She did hers on Friday, but it’s a pretty simple concept: the good and bad things that happened during the previous week, presented as either “RAVE” or “RANT,” respectively.  So without further ado…

RAVE: I spent Saturday afternoon through Sunday morning with Again. First time I’d seen her in a few months, even just for hanging out — and it was really nice to be able to hang out without trying to cram as much fun stuff as possible into just a few hours. Instead of knowing that it wouldn’t be enough time and she’d have to rush off to get some sleep and work the next day or whatever, we took our time, enjoyed each others’ company, and, yes, at some point we fucked. I hadn’t thought about the amount of time it had been for me with this dry spell until a couple weeks ago when I was sitting with a couple of other women and one of them mentioned that it’d actually been a few days since she’d really messed around with her partner; the other girl said “Ha! It’s been two weeks for me, with my boyfriend and I kinda-sorta fighting…” All I could do was try not to let my jaw scrape the floor as I registered that it had to have been early February this year the last time I got laid, and all I could manage was “Six months. No sympathy.”

RANT: Monday I walked away from someone who I’d considered a friend for quite some time, but had also frequently been frustrating, was really not good with communication, and who I just couldn’t keep putting effort into when that effort wasn’t met or respected. She and Again were the two people I’d invited to my birthday party this year. And Again has seen first-hand the way that this woman sends super super mixed messages and is tough to deal with. She’d talk almost every time we were together about how “I’ve always really been a lesbian, I think,” and she went on at length about how she was fed up with guys, that kind of thing. She was constantly telling me “You look fucking hot! Damn, girl!” Laying on the charm so thick it could have buried me, half the time. We shared a lot of explicit talk about sex, about our needs in that regard, and those overlapped in considerable amounts in a number of areas. She’s the one who made the move to kiss me at one point, though I certainly responded in kind, and she’d frequently invite me back to her place to pass along clothes that she had grown out of or was cycling out of her wardrobe… and insist (though it took very little convincing) that I try on each piece to decide if I really liked it… which left me mostly naked in her apartment with her watching intently as I stripped and dressed over and over. She’d offer to zip up the dresses for me, and at first I was like, “well, thanks, but I actually have pretty flexible arms and I can usually get all that myself,” until I saw that she was being all pouty about it, and I realized that “I can get that if you need help” was supposed to mean “I would really love to do that for you if you’ll allow me” and I was just fine with — I welcomed — being touched by her. I just wished that she could handle saying what she actually meant, explicitly asking for what she wanted instead of finding roundabout, indirect, not-at-all-obvious ways of trying to get me to guess what was going on in her head.

She’d also flake on me. Over and over. She kept talking about how it would be nice to do something besides just meeting at the bar we both frequent that’s down the road from her place, and I agreed that it would. She wanted to take me out to a nice dinner, or go see a show, or even go swimming, for example. And in fact, two weeks ago we’d made plans for dinner on Thursday. I mean, I knew Wednesday was her day off, and I’d initially offered “Hey, you know that dinner we’ve been promising each other for months? Why don’t we do that next Wednesday?” and she’d countered with “Mmmm, Thursday night, OMG!” So I said “Thursday works great! I’d only suggested Wednesday because you’d mentioned that was your day off.” No further message from her until Wednesday, when (as I mentioned) I checked in to confirm. And she tells me that she really couldn’t make it, but she’d be “down to go for sure next week.” Which, of course, is pretty much what she’d been saying for months. She tells me “we can still hang out,” and asks if I swim. I point out that I enjoy being in the water, and I’ve got the basics of water safety down, but that I don’t exactly know how to swim and I have to be careful to keep my head out of the water since I have a hole in one eardrum that will give me bad ear infections. Since it was a pretty nonspecific question from her, I figured that some of that information would be useful and some might not, depending on why she was asking, and as it turns out, she was asking because she wanted me to join her. She tells me the time blocks when it’s free; we were texting just after 2pm and I hadn’t even gotten out of bed, let alone dressed, and she’s asking suddenly if I could make it out to go swimming that day. But when one of those blocks was 1 to 3pm and the other was 5:30 to 7pm? That’s zero notice. And I’d just told her that I wasn’t even sure if I had any swimwear, that I’d need to buy something to swim in.

This whole conversation had started because I was checking in with her about the plans we’d made several days before, crossing my fingers that she’d finally come through! I told her no, that I can’t get out that quickly, that I need a little bit of notice if I’m going to make plans (since that also means The Rabbit being available with no notice to drop me out in civilization from this isolated McMansion up in the hills) and that I figured I’d go swimsuit shopping that evening if we were going to swim on Thursday. But then, even though just moments before she’d told me “we can still hang out,” she says that it would have to wait until next week! So, with all that craziness, I ended up going on Saturday (just over a week ago) to pick through what little was left on the racks and found something I thought I could maybe wear. Also pretty nervous, because as a trans* woman, wearing a tight bikini bottom means pretty solidly showing off in ways that other people have issues with. I love my body, and I don’t have any apologies to give for how well-endowed I am, but I’ve had to deal with a fair bit of shit from other folks because they can’t handle me existing proudly. So yeah, going to a family-friendly public pool was a scary thought.

Well, Wednesday came, we’d made made plans but nothing more specific than the day. I thought maybe I’d hear from her at some point, and I could have reached out to ask for more detailed plans, but honestly?  I was kinda irritated by the previous time, frustrated by yet another “oh actually no sorry that won’t work but soon, I swear, I promise next time I’ll do it!” when I was the one reaching out the day before to confirm plans. So I figured I’d give her the opportunity to be the responsible one this time. I didn’t hear anything from her until the following Saturday night/Sunday morning, when she sent me a text to tell me that her day off was Wednesday (yeah, I know that part) and ask if I wanted to go to the restaurant we’d discussed so many times. I said that the Wednesday a few days prior might have worked, when I wasn’t nearly as broke, and asked her “What happened to going swimming this week?”

“It’s too cold and I’m busy” was her oh-so-eloquent reply. I recognized how angry I was, how hurt, and figured maybe I should step back until I could reply more calmly — and when I did, it was to tell her “If you’d told me that ‘let’s go swimming Wednesday’ had changed, I could have made other plans. But I set aside that day for you, and you never got back to me.” Just the simple facts. I didn’t even get into “and I’m angry and hurt by that” or “this is a pretty consistent pattern for you” or anything — just factual statements. I set aside that day; if’ I’d had a little bit of warning I could have made other plans; I wouldn’t have thought that was controversial. I followed that with another message referencing a recent comment she had made about how I “never” do the things she wants to do, and how I was giving the pool a try even though it made me nervous, because she had specifically brought it up as something that she wanted to do, and I figured that I could at least give it a chance. I finished by saying that “I guess catching you when I’m already at the bar is about as much as is going to happen when you don’t follow through or follow up on plans, though…”

Hooooooooly shit, that set her off! Tells me not to try to “make her feel bad,” says that if I choose to be upset that’s all on me, and tells me that I could have reached out because it’s a “two-way street.” (Nevermind the fact that just this one time I was fed up with reaching out over and over only to hear “well, actually, nevermind, cancel our plans but we’ll definitely get together soon!” and figured that she could either rise to the occasion or let me down again.) Tells me that she had hit me up to “solidify plans” but that I wasn’t “being fun” and so she would just leave me alone. She tells me that it was a “bullshit-ass text” because I was “trying to attack her.” Ummm… what? I thought over my reply carefully, drafted and scrapped and drafted and scrapped and tried a different approach and scrapped that too, and finally I told her that “I don’t know where you’re getting ‘attacked’ from, because that’s not what I’m doing. If you want to treat it as that, go ahead, but that’s you, not me. You ‘hit me up’ about making plans THIS week after flaking on plans LAST week. All I’m doing is pointing that out.” As an afterthought a few minutes later, I said “And plainly stating the facts of a situation is completely different from ‘trying to make you feel bad.’ But if hearing what you did makes you feel bad, maybe there’s a reason?”

So then things started to sink in, and I realized that, yes, actually, I was frustrated with her. Had been frustrated with her for quite some time. Frustrated by the hot-and-cold games, frustrated by the flakiness, frustrated by the multiple occasions during the time we’d known each other where she’d suddenly blocked me from every form of contact we shared, and eventually weeks or months later when we bumped into each other she’d eventually let it slip that she had felt like there had been something rude or insensitive that I’d said or done, and so she’d completely blocked me out. And in each of those cases, I had been left wondering what the fuck I could have possibly said or done wrong, and had no way to contact her, no way to ask, just… gone. And each of those times, when she finally got around to telling me what she thought had happened, it was something that had been a small misunderstanding over something relatively trivial, something that if I had known, I would have immediately apologized and kept that in mind as something to be aware of as potentially taken the wrong way, and I would have been grateful for the opportunity to become a better person. But when “you left no word, no message; I still don’t know exactly what went wrong…” I can’t help you, I can’t avoid whatever it was that hurt this time in the future. You’ve gotta communicate with me if there’s a problem. I can’t only be there when I’m “being fun,” because there’s no foundation for a relationship where the problems just get ignored, never discussed, never resolved. So I decided that letting go was about the only sensible thing I could do.

RAVE: Sunday night, I got to meet Nicola Scott and Greg Rucka — two amazing people who make lots of amazing comics. I could try to describe what the evening was like, but I don’t think I could manage anything more articulate than “asgfhhkdhjzfghjkgjhk!!! sigh…” Tonight, the primary topic was “Black Magick,” and it’s… wonderful. And I’m a little bit… speechless.

RAVE: I have this house pretty much to myself for a couple of days while The Rabbit is out of town; sure, it means more hassle in getting to and from things, but it’s a rare opportunity that I actually have anything resembling privacy or comfortable solitude, and the fact that she’s paying me to watch her house and her cat doesn’t hurt, either.

RANT: I forgot to get by an ATM to deposit the cash I got for housesitting, so now it’s going to be an extra-tough squeeze to get to my therapist appointment tomorrow. More likely than not, I’ll need to plan for 2 to 3 hours just to get the few miles from here to there, which includes starting the trip with a nearly two mile walk down a steep few hills just to get to the nearest bus stop. Not looking forward to that.

So… I should get myself to sleep! Shouldn’t be any trouble to just collapse into unconsciousness at this point. See you all next week, if not before!

When everything is gone

Fuck everything. Just got mugged while getting out of the car in the driveway of The Rabbit‘s place.

They got my purse with my phone and wallet; I hadn’t taken my keys with me, so I still have those… but there’s far more sensitive stuff on my digital device than on my keyring.

Attempted to remotely wipe my phone, but I’m not sure if it actually worked. Changed the master password for my password manager. Tried calling my bank’s automated system, that was a fucking useless waste of time. Same for calling my cellphone company.

The cops were here, took a statement from me, from her. I have very little faith in that accomplishing anything.

I’m going to take a pill and go to sleep, because otherwise I’m gonna just scream and scream and keep on screaming.

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